


hazy blue and sleepy eyes

by queenmcgonagall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmcgonagall/pseuds/queenmcgonagall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis’s hair sticks up at the back and his eyes are threaded with sleep, blue and soft, Harry makes eggs for breakfast, and their feet knock together comfortably under the kitchen table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hazy blue and sleepy eyes

Harry wakes up with a freezing cold nose stuffed into his armpit. Little hands knotted in fists are nestled into his side and when he turns his head, he gets a nose full of hair. The clock next to the bed blinks 7:30. Gingerly, Harry scoots away from Louis in the bed, careful not to roll onto Louis’s small hands that sleepily reach for him, and when he climbs out of bed, Louis makes a tiny snuffling noise, a whimper, and then one eye cracks open.

“Hazza,” he says, his voice scratchy and sleep-worn and Harry smiles softly at the little bundle under the covers. Louis sticks one hand out of the covers and waves it around, his eyes scrunched shut against the weak light that filters in through the blinds.

Harry grasps Louis’s hand and brings it up to his mouth, gently kissing each of his knuckles until Louis blinks his eyes open again and looks up at Harry. His eyes are a hazy blue, soft with sleep and a little swollen from their late night getting in. There’s a small red line across his cheek from where he’s been sleeping, and Harry wants nothing more than to climb back into bed and pull Louis under his chin. But they’ve got a full day of interviews and Louis needs his tea more than he needs Harry to lull him back into sleep.

“Morning, love.” Harry runs his thumb over the soft skin between Louis’s thumb and his forefinger and places one last kiss on the thin skin of his wrist before curling his fist back together and putting his hand back on the bed. “You want eggs for breakfast?

Louis sleepily nods, his chin barely moving as he burrows deeper into the covers. His eyes close again, scrunched shut like he’s trying to dream away the fact that he has to get up soon. Harry sees the little crinkles at the corner of Louis’s eyes and he knows that while most of his tiny wrinkles are laugh-lines, a few must be from stress, and Harry’s heart hurts that he can’t shield Louis from it all. He wishes the whole world could see Louis when he’s like this, soft and pliable and warmly comforting. As soon as they walk out the door, that veneer falls over Louis’s face and even though Harry sees right through it all, can still see the vulnerable Louis in his blue, blue eyes, he wishes everyone else could. Then again, maybe Harry likes being the only one who knows what Louis sounds like when he’s waking up from a deep sleep, and maybe Harry likes being the only one who’s privileged enough to see Louis when he’s this open and vulnerable to only him. Harry never gets enough of these kinds of mornings, where he gets to take care of Louis and make him breakfast and play at being his little housewife. It makes Harry smile and hope for better days when they can wake up and wander down to the bagel shop with their hands clasped together.

For now, he pulls on a pair of soft trackies and pads out of the bedroom, the door closing with a quiet click behind him. The hardwood floors are cold on the bottom of his feet. When he reaches the living room, he spies Louis’s slippers lying discarded behind the couch from where he’d been chucking them at Harry the other night while they watched The Ellen Show. He slips them on, a little bit too small and his heels hanging off the ends, and shuffles into the kitchen.

As Harry stands there, cracking eggs into the bowl and heating the frying pan up, he hears the bedroom door down the hallway open, and then there’s a quiet mewling sound emanating from down the hallway.

“Harry!” Louis is calling, his voice rough and raspy, the way it gets when he throws himself into a concert the night before, or, Harry thinks with a chill down his spine, the way it gets when he gets determined to suck Harry’s cock dry.

When Harry pops his head around the corner, Louis is standing in the door of the bedroom, his toes curling over the edge of the carpet where it turns into hardwood floor. His pajama pants are twisted around, shirt rucked up so Harry can see the golden brown of his tummy, and his little shoulders are showing from where his shirt pulled over in his sleep. Harry wants to bite his collarbones.

“Hi, sweetheart, what is it?” Harry asks, eyeing the way Louis won’t step over the door frame. He thinks he knows the problem.

“Hazza, it’s cold,” Louis pouts. He points at the hardwood floor and Harry bites back a grin at the whining, childlike way that Louis demands Harry fix all his problems. “Bring me my slippers?” Louis peeks up through his fringe, a tiny smile on his lips.

“No can do, Lou, my own feet are cold,” Harry chuckles quietly and nods down to his own feet, smiling at the way Louis’s lips turn down at the corners and he hangs his head in disappointment.

“Guess I’ll have to go back to bed then, let Paul know, okay?” Louis turns to go back into the room and Harry laughs out-loud, the sound of it bouncing around the hallway and through the empty rooms of this house they barely spend any time in.

“Ok wait, wait, I’m coming,” Harry grins and tosses the spatula he was holding onto the counter. Louis arches one little round eyebrow and Harry’s stomach hurts at how sweet Louis looks.

Harry walks down the hallway and Louis lets out a soft little hiccupping laugh, the sound of catching in the hollows of Harry’s heart and his fingers itch to feel the soft skin under Louis’s eyes, to have his little hands spread out over Harry’s hipbones, barely big enough. Harry crouches down in front of Louis, facing the kitchen, and looks over his shoulder at Louis, who giggles again, the sweet laugh of a child who’s getting exactly what he wants. He clambers up on Harry’s back and Harry lets out a dramatic grunt and pretends to stumble, until Louis whacks him on the head.

“Ride ‘em cowboy,” he cheers in his morning-worn voice, and digs his sharp heels into Harry’s bare sides. Harry neighs, feeling like an idiot, and tosses his hair around while Louis giggles, and then he grasps Harry’s hair and tugs. “To the kitchen!”

They make their way down the hall, Louis spidering cold fingers down Harry’s neck until his bones are shivery and little sparks of feeling are spreading down his arms to his fingers. His arms are hooked around Louis’s knees, the feeling of his thick thighs wrapped around his waist a comfortable weight.

When they get to the kitchen, Louis slides off his back, sneaking a tickle in on his way down. Harry barks with laughter and turns around, in time to see Louis stick his tongue out at him and push his bum out at Harry as he saunters over to the toaster, hips swaying in a lovely rocking motion that makes Harry’s throat close up and his desire to pull Louis back into bed with him is bigger than ever.

“Your bum looks glorious today,” Harry says over his shoulder as he turns back to the stove. Louis snorts and pops 3 pieces of toast into the toaster.

“When doesn’t my bum look glorious,” Louis scoffs and leans against the counter, resting his chin in his hands as he studies the nutrition label on the Nutella that’s sitting on the counter. Harry rolls his eyes.

The eggs snap and crackle, Harry bops his hips around to the soft sounds of Nick’s show that Louis has turned on the radio, and the quietly clanking sounds of Louis setting the table with plates is comfortingly normal, ordinary, regular. The song on the radio is familiar, one that Nick plays on his show all the time, and Harry knows that Louis probably has a small pinched scowl on his face as Nick’s drawling voice comes back over the radio.

Harry wishes every morning were like this, a little bubble of tranquility in the middle of their terribly fantastic and adventurous lives. They’ve got a flight to Cannes tomorrow for another awards show Harry won’t know the name of until they get off the flight, and more interviews stacked up today, preparation for the tour starting in a few weeks. But here, now, it’s the sound of Louis quietly whistling along to the radio, the swishing of his too-big pajama pants against the tile floor, the clanging bounce of the toast as it pops up. Their mornings, this small window of time where it’s not Harry Styles of One Direction and Louis Tomlinson of One Direction with female girlfriend Eleanor Calder, but HarryandLouis, the Harry who likes his eggs runny and the Louis who burns the toast every morning and has to scrape the black dust off into the sink. It’s the HarryandLouis who wake up in the morning with their hands clasped under their bodies, Harry who grumbles when he can’t find the tshirt he’s looking for in the wash, Louis who gets snippy when he’s already in the shower before he realizes there’s no fresh towels.

It’s simple, it’s so easy the way they slide together like puzzle pieces, move around each other in the kitchen like it’s a memorized dance that nobody else knows the steps to. Louis twists in a little waltz when Harry reaches past him to grab forks, his knuckles brushing the exposed skin under Louis’s tshirt. Harry nimbly steps around Louis when Louis hops around the counter to grab napkins, and Louis presses a short kiss to Harry’s cheek as he swoops by. Harry’s cheeks turn pink because even now, two years later, the soft love in Louis’s eyes makes Harry’s bones feel like rubber and his stomach knots up because god, he’s so in love with this fey little boy who yells too loudly and loves Harry more than Harry can possibly understand.

The eggs are brown now, the toast waiting patiently on the plates next to the stove, buttered by Louis. Harry’s just flipping the eggs onto the toast when he feels freezing cold fingers petting softly at his hipbones, dipping below his waistband to sneak a little grab at his bum. Louis hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder and sniffs loudly, clearly impatient for his eggs. His bony little chin, with the secret scar that Harry loves to poke at, digs into the soft skin of Harry’s shoulder, and Louis slides his arms around until the tips of his fingers touch just under Harry’s navel, threading through the soft hairs that lead into his pants. He scratches mindlessly and hums something tuneless (but could maybe be Katy Perry) into Harry’s neck while he waits for his eggs, and Harry is struck again by how easy and comfortable this is. He smiles down at the stove and gets his egg on his toast before he turns around in the circle of Louis’s arms and runs his hands down Louis’s back, over the wrinkled and loose tshirt that’s probably Liam’s or Zayn’s.

“Hi, love,” Louis whispers, his nose tucked into the hollows of Harry’s collarbone. He brushes his lips over the thin skin there and bites gently. Harry tucks his big hands into the waistband of Louis’s pajamas pants, copping his own feel of Louis’s glorious ass, until Louis squeaks and jumps when Harry gives a little squeeze.

Harry nudges Louis’s chin with his head and Louis looks up, eyes soft and round, and Harry counts the threads of gold around his pupils. He smiles down at Louis, and it’s like everything slides into place, his bones fit together comfortably and his skin settles and he’s got his hands around Louis and it’s quiet, just the sound of their breathing and the low hum of the radio.

They press their lips together and there’s no fireworks, no roaring and golden epiphanies, just the chapped feel of Louis’s lips against his and the scratch of Louis’s fingers against the small of his back. It’s a sweet comfort, the tiny movements of Louis’s lips against Harry’s as they smile into each other’s mouths, no need for words. Harry tugs Louis up against him, fits a thigh between Louis’s and bites gently on Louis’s bottom lip until Louis whimpers a little bit.

“Ugh, Haz, stop we have to eat,” Louis chuckles hoarsely and pulls back from Harry. “The boys will kill us if we keep them waiting like last time.”

Harry grins and thinks back to the last time they’d gotten carried away before breakfast, when Niall had walked in yelling for them to hurry up, only to find the table completely set and the eggs burning in the pan, with Harry slumped against the fridge, Louis on his knees in front of him. Niall says he’s scarred, Louis said he was blessed to have such a great view.

“Alright, alright,” Harry groans and pushes Louis away from him, swatting him on the bum as Louis turns away to pour his cup of tea and Harry’s glass of milk, and Harry grabs the plates with their eggs and toast.

They eat their breakfast with small smiles and feet tangled under the table. Louis munches his toast and reads the newspaper in front of him while Harry wipes up his runny egg yolk with his toast and scrolls through his twitter feed on his phone. Every so often, they glance at each other and smile happily and sometimes Louis comments on a news article or Harry reads aloud a funny tweet. It’s every kind of perfect, all the quiet brilliance of the LouisandHarry bubble, the way Louis’s fringe falls over his eyes, the way he stomps around angrily after breakfast because Harry told him it was too cold for Toms, the patient way that Louis waits by the door as Harry rushes around turning off lights and setting the dishwasher to run. He stands there with his hands clasped and his little hat tied around under his chin, his ears folded down under the warm winter hat that he wears so his wet hair doesn’t freeze on the walk from the car to the studio. Harry tilts Louis’s chin up and presses one last kiss to Louis’s cold lips, the last one for the day until they’re home and safe in the LouisandHarry bubble and his heart pangs a little bit at the thought that it has to be like this, but then Louis bounces up and down and tugs on Harry’s curls and his eyes are blue blue blue and his mouth is wide and red in a smile and Harry thinks it’s been the best morning they’ve had in a long time.


End file.
